Lost and Found
by OfUnendingDreams
Summary: She had thought it was over. She had thought that they were gone. But she's wrong; there's a nasty surprise waiting for her, and there's no way out. T for fluff and adult-related themes. AU/AH. Hiatus.
1. Prologue

**A/N: Hey people! I know I know I still have Look into My Soul to update (man I haven't updated in literally forever!) but I had this great idea for TMI and I had to get this down on paper!**

**Disclaimer: I am not Cassandra Clare, so therefore I do not own any of these characters:(.**

Prologue:

They came, again. Shrouded in cold, white mist, they stood, backs hunched, arms hanging limp at their sides, deprived of energy. Their veins spider-webbed across their bodies which were wrapped in translucent, pale skin. Their faces held no emotion, remaining forever impassive. She could not recognize them.

They talked, they always did; loud enough for her to distinguish noise but soft enough for the words to be undistinguishable. She wished she could hear what they were saying; but the whispers of their voices in her ear were all she could get.

The mist gathered thickly at their heads, shielding their faces from her once bright, green eyes. She watched, from a distance, as they locked their fingers and raised their arms, waving, beckoning almost. She longed to reach them, to be in their embrace once more; she did not know why.

She stood from her place, a set of forlorn swings, the rickety metal chains groaning at the change in weight. The swing swung slightly, hitting her lightly on the legs, reminding her.

She took a small step towards them; her Sketcher's scraped across the worn tar. A winding path led her to them, but each step was dragging a foot through quicksand. The gray tar path was crumbled in areas, cracked and perishing. Trees lining the path were gray and fallow, lacking. They hung low there, their limbs swaying with the winds, reaching down as if trying to capture her, to suck out her sanity and mortality.

A strong gust of wind blew, stronger than any other, scattering some fallen leaves and tendrils of her fiery hair obscured her face. She hurriedly pushed them away.

She kept her gaze on them, for they had turned their heads towards her. They had ceased talking but their fingers were still intertwined. She thought that they were warning her.

Suddenly, the pressure in the air changed; they sensed it for they snapped their heads from side to side, wary; she sensed it for she froze mid-step. Wind blew harder and harder, like knives piercing her skin. The wind twirled the mist, twisting and turning it, and she watched, she saw as they twisted and turned with the mist, deforming themselves beyond humanity.

She was not hallucinating about the wind; invisible knives slashed at and their bodies, blood rushing down, staining the path red. The knives left her alone, as if teasing her, as if saying, "Watch in pain, little girl. You cannot help them, yet you caused this."

She cried out. She did not like the wind and the knives; they made her feel awful, helpless; she could not help them. The blood flowed downhill, down the path, to gather at her feet, soaking her socks. She did not care. It hurt, badly. She clutched her stomach, trying to patch herself from the intense pain forming, nails digging into her skin. The pain was so much; she was afraid. Afraid that she could not handle it. But, she must. _For them,_ she told herself.

The knives had finished with them; their pieces lay scattered, organs ripped apart, blood flowing freely. It had reached her calves by now; her pant legs were drenched.

It hurt too much. She dropped to her knees, tears mingling with the blood. Her hands clawed at her face, nails creating long, jagged, cuts, disfiguring her porcelain skin. She did not feel the pain; instead, it brought release from the guilt she had bottled up inside her.

She looked at her hands and saw more blood resting in the grooves, wet and slick. The pain did not help much anymore. She wanted to escape, to be gone. She knew that they would be disappointed in her; they thought that she could live happily. But, she could not. As she sat in the pool of blood steadily growing larger, she wondered if they would come back. They always did, why would they not this time? She laid in the blood now, drowning in it, and in her mind, she knew that they would not come back for her. She would leave with them, and nothing could rescue her now, for was she gone.

**A/N: Wow! What did you guys think? Please, please REVIEW! It helps me grow as a writer and you guys can read better stories. :D**


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter 1:

**A/N: Hello :D, I'm back! So…yah…I'll get on with the story now. And…a treat for reading but NOT REVIEWING! (except for bookgroupie ;)) **

_City of Lost Souls spoiler: _

"_Warlock," he said. "I know who you are."  
>Magnus raised his eyebrows. "You do?"<br>"Magnus Bane. Destroyer of the demon Marabas. Son of—"  
>"Now," said Magnus, quickly. "There's no need to go into all of that."<br>"But there is." The demon sounded reasonable, even amused. "If it is infernal assistance you require, why not summon your father?"  
>Alec looked at Magnus with his mouth open.<em>

Chapter 1:

Clarissa Morgenstern woke, luminous green eyes flying open as they frantically searched the room for anything provoking her. She turned, gasping in pain as she put pressure to a wound she had acquired two days ago, a cracked rib. Her hands scrambled around, searching for her covers and pulling them close around her, trying to protect herself from whatever was attacking her—fear and guilt.

_It has been nine years, _she thought._ Nine years since they—they died. _

Her throat closed around the word, her mind and body unwilling to accept the fact. Tears threatened to spill as waves of memories and emotions crashed over her, drowning her in their depths.

_*Flashback* _

_Seven-year-old Clary Fairchild lay behind the sofa, pressing her ear to the back of the furniture, trying to catch the conversation her mother, Jocelyn, was having with a man. _

_He was frightening; tall and muscular, he seemed in his mid-thirties, with platinum blonde hair streaked with lines of grey, coal-black eyes piercing her soul when he chanced a glance at her, seeing her deepest, darkest secrets as if they were laid bare to the world. _

"…_I am her legal guardian and her parent, do you not think that I have a right to take care of her?" she caught her mother say in her "angry voice". _

_Jocelyn's "angry voice" was not loud. In fact, it was very soft, the words spoken softly, but shaking with hidden rage; formidable, a warning to all who knew her. _

_When Clary's mother last used that tone two years ago, Clary had taken two ten-dollar bills, shredded them to bits and threw them into the air, shrieking in her girlish innocence, "Look Mommy! It's raining money!" Clary hadn't been allowed to go to Simon's or watch any anime for an entire week._

_A deep, growling voice answered in turn, obviously masculine and belonging to Scary Man. "Of course you're her legal guardian Jocelyn, but I do sincerely think that she would be in safer hands if she were to live with me."_

Who are they talking about? _Clary wondered, and, judging from their reactions, instinctively knew that this would not end well._

"_What do you mean, in safer hands? What matters is that she is happy, and she is happy here!" Clary's mother shouted, losing the last shred of her tenacious control. _

_Clary's eyes widened in shock; her mother _never_ raised her voice. Ever. She heard footsteps coming closer to her hiding place, paralyzing her with fear and rooting her to her chosen hiding spot. Shifting slightly, she moved her head to peer through the space between the couch and the ground, head cocked at an uncomfortable angle._

"_Now, now, Jocelyn, there is no need to raise your voice," Scary Man stated casually, as if it were a regular conversation over the weather. "I do not deny that she is happy, but will she be happy in the future? After all, I do believe that you are financially struggling." _

_Clary, now kneeling, squinted through the small hole in the sofa. The Scary Man knew, she saw, that he had struck a nerve and a smirk twisted his features as fury clouded Jocelyn's eyes like a rolling storm._

"_How—how dare you!" shrieked Jocelyn. "You are _never_ going to take Clary away from me! Go, get off of my property now, and don't you dare return! Get out, now!" _

Oh, _Clary thought. _They're talking about me. I don't want Scary Man to take me away! I love Mommy and Daddy Luke."

_Clary's mother pushed Scary Man as hard as she could, away from her and away from the sofa, but he only stumbled a couple of steps, regaining his balance with practiced ease, pulling out a large item from his coat, the object glinting with a metallic menace. _

_**BANG!**_

_Clary froze in absolute horror. _He has a gun, _she thought, the only thing repeating in her mind as her mother gasped in pain, her willowy frame slumping to the floor, the carpet turning a deep crimson. Tears streamed down Clary's face, but she did dare not make a sound, the man's dark legs stepping across her fallen mother, a great weight suddenly letting itself be known as it took root across her shoulders. It hurt so much, her heart chopped into little pieces, like someone had grabbed a sword and slashed it to bits. _

_Just then, she heard the front door lock turning and Luke's warm voice calling, "Clary! Jocelyn! I'm home!" _

No, no, not Luke too, _Clary sobbed in her head, daring to peek around the side of the sofa, in hope of getting a better view and a chance to warn kind-hearted man._

"_Clary? Jocel—" He was interrupted as he turned the corner, frozen by shock as he saw the bloody body of Jocelyn, a hole through her heart, the gore soaking the white carpet. Eyes moving through the room with a cold rage unknown to Clary, he stopped at the appearance of Scary Man. He was reclining respectfully on the splattered chair, gun trained lazily on the other man as the latter moved to storm forward. An echoing bang rang in Clary's ears, her father figure crashing forward, landing mere meters from Jocelyn's silent body._

_Clary turned her head away from the horrendous sight, involuntarily letting out a whimper and sniffle as she sobbed relentlessly. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to think that this was all a dream, that this was all a dream... _

_Scary Man, obviously hearing the mournful whimper, twisted, lips forming a cruel grin as he, almost playfully, whispered, "Come out, come out! I promise I won't hurt you!"_

_He stalked over to where he had heard the noise, finding the diminutive form of Clary, crouched behind the sofa, flaming hair covering her face. But, before he could register anything, Clary lifted her head up and spat as hard as she could into Scary Man's face._

_Surprised by the girl's daring, the Scary Man stepped back, wiping the spittle from his chin, but now clearly angry with the child, grabbed her arms, wrenching them painfully above her. Crying out, the girl squirmed in his grasp, and cried out, lashing at his cheek._

_His head whipped back but his grip did not loosen, only tightened, as he dragged her from her home, shoving her into his car, taking her from her only home, from the remains of her childhood. _They won't be coming back, _she thought,_ and it's my fault.

_*End Flashback*_

Clarissa released her hold on the covers, sighing as the tears dripped down her face, forming dark splotches on the blankets.

"Clarissa! You get your lazy ass down here this instant!" she heard Valentine shout. "We're expecting company today in twenty minutes!"

She refused to accept him as her father; he did not deserve that title. Luke did. _Don't think about them, _she told herself, drying her tears as she dressed quickly, a quarter sleeve shirt and Bermuda's to hide her bruises and scars. She always got awkward glances at school, but she used the excuse that she got cold easily. It wasn't so bad since they lived in Los Angeles, California, but on the warmer days, she suffered.

Puttingon some light concealer and taming her unruly hair, she hurried down the stairs before Valentine could get any angrier than he already was. Of course, Jonathan was there, sitting at the pristine table like the good little boy he was; always his father's son. He was obviously going down his father's path, extremely cruel, but a rich lawyer with immense power in the city.

Clary gulped down her cereal, finishing just minutes before the doorbell rang. A short, squat, balding man that hid his girth under expensive business clothing, carrying a leather suitcase, grey, expressionless eyes taking in his surroundings, in a seemingly disinterested way, as if forced to be here entered the mansion.

Valentine greeted him heartily, clasping his arm warmly, and as they discussed his business matters, Clary sat patiently at the table to serve cookies and coffee at a moment's notice. However, when the man asked for a refill, she accidentally bumped her elbow on his chair, sending the steaming liquid flying, scalding the man's wrist and staining a better part of his suit. She clamped her hands over her mouth, cowering as both men thundered to their feet.

"Look at what you've done! Do you know how much this suit cost me! Two _thousand_ dollars, do you hear me? _Two thousand!_" the short man bellowed, face coloring like a tea kettle.

Clary stammered out useless apologies, truly sorry, but not for the man, but for the fact that she had ruined another one of Valentine's meetings, knowing that it would result in a severe punishment. After the man left, Valentine advanced upon her. "How." Strike. "Dare." Slap. "You." Punch.

Clary doubled over, gasping in pain, gulping in copious amounts of air. _Great, _she thought. _A new collection of three new bruises, more cuts across my face, and probably another cracked rib. _

"You pathetic little whore. You're just like your mother; pathetic and unable to do anything." Valentine spat. He shoved her, hard, pushing her to the floor and spun away on his heel, walking away as if it happened every day, which it did. Jonathan followed him like a puppy, rushing to catch up.

As Clary lay there on the floor, wheezing, she thought as she raged, _I do think, that it's time, to leave._

**A/N: Okay guys, how was it? Wow, pretty long with 1,700 words. Whatever. REVIEW! Please? **** It would make me **_**very**_** happy…**

**THANK YOU MY AWESOME BETA I-Sold-My-Soul-For-A-Cookie!**


	3. Chapter 2

Chapter 2:

**A/N: Hi again! So sorry for really late update I'm super busy with school and sports and music…yada…lame excuses I know:( Well, here we go!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own characters…only Cassandra Clare does…boohoo:'(**

***.*.***

Small, artist's hands moved deftly across a sketchpad, while Clary stared outside, out of her window, away from the horrible hellhole she lives in. Her fiery hair lacked luster and fell in long sheets, shielding her face.

She drifted away from her body, her soul taking her to a different dimension, floating, floating… Her thoughts were all directed to going out, escaping, _away_.

Her hand moved with a mind of its own, shuffling, dancing on the paper, creating beautiful images. It was her only escape. However, she needed more; it simply was not enough. Just drawing was not going to stop Valentine and Jonathon from torturing her, accusing her, and destroying her. Just drawing was not going to help her get out of this dreaded place. She needed time to mend, but she couldn't do it here. _Another place,_ she thought.

Looking down to see what she had drawn, she saw bustling pedestrians, honking cars, looming skyscrapers. A typical day at Los Angeles. She was already in a city…why would another city help? _New York, _her conscious whispered. That's it. Her escape.

***.*.***

The slamming of the doors, the stomping of feet, and the clashes and crashes of items being shattered jolted Clary awake. She listened intently, hoping that tonight was not another one of them. If thrice a week was not satisfactory, then what is?

Terror gripped her; judging from the sounds from below, Clary knew would be another hard night, one of the worst. She knew that she ought to be numb to this sort of pain by now, but, if possible, it only got worse. She tentatively shuffled down the stairs, afraid out of her mind, not wanting to anger Valentine by coming too late.

Clary peered around the corner of the wall, feeling very much like a little girl once again, not believing the sight set before her. A woman, wrapped around Valentine, was in the process of kicking off her 7-inch platforms while Valentine steered her towards the large, L-shaped black leather couch.

Clary squinted, disbelieving the scene before her and blamed it on the dim lighting, but her eyes did not lie. So shocked by the sight of this, stood paralyzed, watching Valentine run his fingers along the woman's thigh, shoving his hand in her skirt. The lady arched her back in pleasure, moaning in enthusiasm. They locked lips more passionately now, a bit like two predators competing for each other's faces.

The repulsion of this squirmed in Clary's stomach, and she quickly whipped her back from the wall, panting heavily. She dashed up the stairs as quietly as she could, her heart pounding inside her chest. She collapsed on her bed, still hyperventilating.

Thoughts raced through her mind at the speed of light, traveling faster than even thinkable. Clary had always thought that Valentine was still in love with her mother, and that the only reason why he abused her was because she looked so much like her mother. But…why did Jocelyn run away then? Could it be that he also abused her? That didn't seem very likely by the way he reacts when something comes up about her. Not likely at all…then what?

There was also something else…a sharp tug in her chest, like a rope coiled around her heart, pulling at it to emit feelings, corrupt ones, malign ones. Clary tried hard to detect this feeling, but it eluded her grasp just barely. And suddenly it came to her mind. It came on that one Christmas a couple of years back, when she saw a family, a little girl on the back of her father, positioning the star on top of the pine tree. They joined hands, all five of them, and began to merrily sing carols, the kinds that she heard frequently on the radio. It came on the hottest day of July, when a father saw the extreme heat and immediately went to buy his son the biggest ice cream cone she had ever seen, all sprinkled covered and chocolate coated. Many more instances…too many to name. But, it came, just then, when she saw Valentine and that woman, locked in such a tight embrace. Jealousy.

***.*.***

Weeks have passed since that fitful night, and Valentine still came home every night with a different woman. Clary couldn't complain; this was much better off than having him take out his sexual urges on her. Yet, she still felt slightly bad for the women, but instantly took it back when she remembered that these women do it voluntarily, even if it's for the money.

Clary knew why she envied Valentine; it was definitely not because that Valentine was sleeping with others, but more so that he had somebody there for him. She didn't; her mother was gone, Luke was gone, her friends had been scared away, much less a boyfriend. Clary only had only her sketchpad and the few precious pencils she owns.

She was beginning to formulate a plan in her mind, a plan for escape. She knew for certain that she would go to New York City, for the immense population would slow Valentine's search tremendously. However, the name of Valentine Morgenstern is known by every populace of the world, so Clary had decided to take the name of Clary Fray. Still, she needed to know how to escape; then, she would decide on the things to be done in her new life.

Clary remembered, although it was so long ago, and her heart still ached every moment of her life, a great desire; Simon Lewis, the pale skinny boy in oversized glasses, hiding his big, brown eyes framed with long, lush, lashes, also known as Clary's best friend.

_*Flashback*_

_Clary laughed; Simon was so funny sometimes. They were just back from their first day of first grade, currently playing Clary's room. They poured over the fascinating pictures of the new manga book Simon's mother got for his birthday which was a few days before. _

_Clary met Simon a few months ago, at the start of summer break. Clary had just moved in with her mother, and sometimes, a kind man named Luke would come by and stay for a while. Clary thought that they loved each other very much, and she wondered when Luke was going to ask Jocelyn to marry him. Clary would love to have him as a father._

_Simon excitedly pointed out Batman, his favorite superhero. He hopped around in the sofa, and Clary quickly joined him, but pointing at a superheroine. "Look!" Simon and Clary said, simultaneously. They giggled, and began to banter about who would win in a fight. _

_In the end, they decided that they would tie—both were too awesome to lose. They never got in an argument for long._

An ache awakened Clary from her memory. She needed to figure out how to escape this shitty place, back to where she was happy, which was most definitely not here. Clary needed money, shelter, a plan, a plan that would work. A plan that she had been thinking about for more than two years, but never had the guts to put it in action. A plan that she had.

**A/N: :/ Sorry if a lot has not been revealed…and if it's REALLY boring. I mean, if I were you, I wouldn't be reading this, but…I wrote it, so it must be good, right? :D Review, review, review!**


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